


Firestarter

by ReoPlusOne



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alpha/Alpha, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Fantasy, M/M, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Omega Verse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-06
Updated: 2017-04-19
Packaged: 2018-04-13 07:40:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 13,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4513557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReoPlusOne/pseuds/ReoPlusOne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The little squire who loved the prince swore that he would always protect him – and he was willing to sacrifice anything to do so.  Medieval fantasy, omegaverse.  FrUK.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Finally separate from the bustling throngs within the castle, two young halves found each other to hide away as a whole again.  They left a trail of petals behind them, tumbling to the ground and peppering the royal lawn in shades of pink and violet.  Since they were not old enough to yet write coherent love letters they instead linked hands, swung their arms together, and whispered “I love you” over and over like it could last forever.  


Pulling the stems of weeds together in a loose weave, Arthur huffed as he felt Francis run fingers through his hair and leave braids in his wake. “These are unbecoming of an alpha,”

“They suit you.  Besides, you don’t know if you’re going to be an alpha just yet.”

“Yes I do,” Arthur tugged the end of a flower through a braided loop and tied it there.  "You’re pretty and you have a thin figure.  You’ll be an omega, so I have to be an alpha, or we can’t be together.“

"Silly boy.  We will be together no matter what we are.”

There was a pause.  Only the wind teasing distant treetops served as the background noise to the two of them sharing one peaceful moment together – it was a scene they both respected the rarity of with silence.

Worming his tongue out of the corner of his mouth helped him concentrate; it was just what he needed to finish the dandelion-crown and, with a wriggle, set it atop Francis’ head.  From the older boy’s lap Arthur beamed up and watched him take stock of his present.  He almost expected a scowl, but with reverence the prince instead ran his fingertips across the cool stems, the bright petals, and grinned.  “This is by far the cheapest crown I shall ever wear,” Francis earned a frown from his companion, “But it is also the most precious to me.  Thank you.”

The call from beneath a castle arch came and left Arthur alone with his thoughts as daylight faded around him.  Francis was off to step into a beautiful gown and sit in stiff silence for the sake of portraits; not just one but at least a dozen painters waited for him, nervous with the honor that accompanied being allowed to paint the prince.  Those portraits would depart, swathed in linen and carried gently like babies, to far-off lands so other young royals could fall in love with them – and the face of a boy they had never met.

They would have been told stories about him, and almost none of them would be true.  In their daydreams Francis might love whatever these stranger princes loved, whether it be music or performance or hunting, and they could run their hands along the gilded painting’s edges whenever they thought of him.  He could be theirs, after all.

Arthur felt a thing in the night accompany him; it made his hands wring and his teeth grind in heady want – before he knew what lovemaking was, he knew that Francis absolutely would, _must_ be his.

No one with a portrait could want him as desperately as the little squire who watched him walk away.

–

Winter came, and with it, bitter cold.  Like flocks of colorful migrating birds the members of court hurried away to the innermost rooms of the castle – warmed by their overcoats of wool and underpinnings of silk, they did not spare a thought or glance to the little one who tiptoed into the night.

The frozen night had turned the forest, usually glowing green with the life inside it, into a wasteland.  On the horizon Arthur could see the branches of dead and sleeping trees reach up like the ribs of so many carcasses, but he pressed on with only a rumor to guide him and a stolen bow to protect him.  

Arthur paused only when the warning signs asked him to.  Rickety, dusty posts stood out from the landscape in faded paint and warned the weary traveler to go no further, and in line with their directions the boy did stop to look back at the winding trail of prints he’d left behind him.

He anticipated that no one in his dull corner of the castle would miss him, and he was almost completely right; the absence of the bow he’d taken from the armory was noticed in curious passing even before his own.

****

But as Francis watched the crowds at court twirl and bow in dance, he could not help but realize that something important was missing; just as he sent a guard to fetch his friend from his quarters, Arthur passed his last chance to turn back deep inside the heart of the forest.  That moment of confusion was all it took for Francis to send a party out to search the castle grounds as the moon hung high and watched his father the king retire from the ball.

Hoofbeats pounded in circles as weary anxiety and the royal command urged them onward through dawn.  The prince himself, wrapped up in furs, trotted behind his men armed with a lantern even as the search continued fruitlessly.

A tiny figure stumbled out of the tree line , running long strides with short legs until he finally collapsed in the snow.  Blue-lipped, Francis shouted his name and threw himself out of the saddle to meet him.  With trembling hands Arthur squeezed, but did not notice his conscious choice not to flinch.

“I have something spectacular to show you,” Arthur murmured.  He closed his eyes and fell away from consciousness to the sound of the guards asking each other in hushed whispers how the child might have burned his hands.


	2. Chapter 2

“You are the prince’s inferior, and so you are also his whipping boy.  Any wound you lay on him will be returned to you twofold, so allow him the win.” Because he was surely just trying to do the right thing -- warning Arthur when most people would not could save him from learning via the lash -- Arthur tried to be sympathetic.  However, his warning had been born of a deep-rooted misunderstanding; though all the members of court knew their difference in standing and the distance it could potentially cause between them, never in their lives had Francis and Arthur felt that distance.    


At court the adults called Arthur the prince’s _special_ friend.  They frowned down on their invitations to play, they murmured in unhushed voices when Francis was not there.  They, lords and ladies of privilege, understood better than anyone what Arthur’s two lots in life were.

If he one day gained an alpha mark he would be a soldier.  Not a soldier like the high-bred knights, who always managed to be in attendance at ceremonies in their honor but never in the actual battles -- the kind who came home bathed in posthumous praise.  Arthur was not the first squire to dream of being buried with his sword and shield.

Surely they saw his arms, thin and unmuscled like Francis’, and assumed his destiny lay in the castle kitchen with all the other unneeded omegas.  If he found himself saddled with the mark of an omega, they thought, he would be lucky to have a life with a modest mate and modest children, crammed in a tiny cottage somewhere.  Regardless of which fate he found himself a victim of, he would always and forever be ordinary -- he was hardly a match for a boy who, by his very birth, was extraordinary.

Every subject in the kingdom knew Francis’ name.  On the day he was born they murmured and crowded with one another, speaking it over and over with glee in their eyes; Arthur was a plain name.  A commoner’s name.  Too many Arthurs already rested eternally, their names too unimportant to even grace the stones they slept beneath.

The priest’s patronizing hand on his shoulder made up Arthur’s mind for him.  Francis was his superior in class, but he could not, would not, be bested in fighting -- and now, he had something amazing on his side.

Arthur tried to hurt him.  To prove he could.  To prove he _would_ , unlike every other sniveling child who bowed down to the prince’s whims.

Really he did try.  But when the blast of heat and pure chemical power that Arthur summoned did finally emerge into being, it came as a pathetic poof that swirled around Francis’ ankles before drifting away on a breeze.  With the most patronizing smile he’d ever worn, the most aggravating person Arthur ever knew clapped his hands and invited his subjects to lean in.

“Come now, try again.”

Before Arthur knew what might happen, the guards, the courtiers, the servants leaned in, eyes narrowed in scrutiny, to watch the scrawny pup sucking up air like it was his first time breathing.  In spite of the hopes (as well as their fears), the prince was not lying.

In his mind’s eye Arthur saw something burning.  The thought became a spell on its own, which in turn erupted into a spark.

Unfortunately that spark burst into life at the back of his throat.

Arthur puked and hit his knees.  Where there should have been regurgitated lunch on the ground, there was instead a patch of earth blackened by flame, simmering the mud as the young one grabbed his throat and tried to choke out words that wouldn’t come.

Much like a baby dragon’s, Arthur’s first time breathing fire was destined to be messy.  Francis tiptoed around the much and pat his back, only pausing his fussing to mouth a smug “I told you,” to his father.  As the onlookers stared slack-jawed, the king folded his arms behind his back and strolled away.

Francis did not find a single singed thread on his gown and so Arthur did not suffer -- aside from the horrified stares.

\--

Of all the possible wonders every corner of the palace held, squires were the most universally ignored.  Customarily prepubescent, they weren’t even old enough to attract the romantic attention of the more adventurous members of court or clergy, thus satisfying the most basic of the castle needs.  Arthur was just the next in a long parade of unremarkable, unnoticed little ones that had been marching through the halls since the castle had first stood; the only interest he served to attract was in his potential.

But unlike all those who came before him, his potential had just skyrocketed.

Francis whispered to him over dinner, feeling, as he always did, at home in the crowd.  Word in the castle spread quickly enough for anyone present to know exactly who Arthur was; he noticed his name mouthed enough times that night to be worrisome.  

“They will have to make sure you’re the appropriate sex first, of course,” Francis nudged him for a response.

“What?”

“Did you hear me?”

“How could I?”

Francis snickered.  “The elite guard is chomping at the bit to recruit you.  So long as you’re an alpha, I think you’re guaranteed a spot.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem,” Arthur said with his chin held high, “I’ve been eating plenty of meat.”

“Eating meat won’t make you an alpha.”

“It won’t decrease my chances, now will it?”

“Would it really be _so terrible_ to be an omega,” Francis murmured to himself and hoped his companion heard him, “You could still be with me.”

“How am I supposed to protect you if I’m an omega? Nobody lets omegas _do_ anything.”

Looking out over a sea of people was Francis’ usual nightly duty, and he did it with all the delicate pomp his father did.  It took Arthur a moment to realize that it actually was his father he was staring at; from across the room the king took notice of their interlocked hands and raised a glass to them in a silent toast.  The starstruck anxiety the prince would probably never come to know nearly overcame the squire, who averted his gaze and bit his lip without anything else to do.  

Francis glanced back at him. “Maybe you could be my mistress.”

Arthur sneered.  “If I was your mistress, my power would be a waste.”

“You could use it to light fires in the kitchen.”

“I won’t be _anyone’s_ second choice.  Especially not yours.”

Chin in palm, Francis offered him a dreamy smile.  “You don’t understand at all, do you?”

“No, and I don’t particularly want to.”

“The mistress is the king’s first choice.  The lover warms the king’s bed at night, while the queen sleeps alone.”

Arthur pushed his greens around in circles with the end of his fork and remained unconvinced.  “You’re a natural poet now, aren’t you?”

“It’s the truth, my father told me.”

The king’s curiosity turned into a single finger waving, come here, to the prince -- never one to leave his love without a goodbye kiss, Francis planted it on the boy’s forehead and twirled away, golden tunic shining, to answer his father’s call.  

Arthur spared a glance for his untouched food and slipped away, for the first time that night, unnoticed.

\--

The throng paused and parted for the boy dressed in purple and gold; they weren’t Arthur’s colors and never had been, but they did shimmer with the prince’s blessing, and that was something to respect.  Signed with a kiss and marked by Francis’ personal seal, a letter had been slid under his door overnight instructing him to come to the ball dressed like a royal banner.

Arthur slipped away from the party as it continued to rage without him.  Alphas and omegas alike boomed with drink and song; reliving their own moments with old mates, new mates, drama and pageantry.  The looks Arthur received only became cautious as he approached the dressing chambers beyond the ballroom, and the hands of the guards tensed around their weapons.

They were the alphas entrusted with the safekeeping of Francis’ life as well as his reputation, so of course they were right to be wary -- he would understand better than anyone soon enough, because if Francis already had his mark, Arthur’s own was only months away.  He would be on the other end of the royal guard’s spear soon enough.

“I must see the prince,” He repeated.

The guards held, firm and silent.  They saw a boy arrive to meet his destiny before them, and all they could spare was a scandalized sniffle in his general direction -- Arthur stomped his foot.  It was fate.  It was _real_.  It was everything he had sacrificed for.  

Arthur was the only one in the kingdom besides the prince himself who knew what mark was waiting for him behind that door; since they were little, he knew.  Because alphas didn’t send letters signed with kisses and stinking of perfume, because if they couldn’t be together Francis wouldn’t have sent robes in the colors of his personal coat of arms for Arthur to swath himself up in.

Nothing stood in their way but the damnable guard whose ranks the squire himself would soon join.

“ _Please_ ,”

The door opened slowly.  Shadows played across the etched wooden creatures on its face as time creaked to a crawl alongside it; both guards, as well as Arthur, jumped.  Their stares were met with tender blue eyes.

“Francis -- you’ve no idea what it took to get here, but I’m _here_ , I’m ready --”

That night Arthur became the first person in the kingdom to witness the alpha mark over Francis’ heart.   



	3. Chapter 3

Ordinary. **  
**

Since the day Arthur was born he didn’t have to be reminded to know that he was ordinary.  Plain hair, plain eyes, a plain smile that chose to remain hidden more often than not.  Without noble title or worthy talents he had lived life in the palace unseen and unheard.  For three years he had dared to take up space there, waiting for the day he would become worthy of the sympathy of court -- among a crowd of shining people he chose the greatest one of them to love.

But then Francis’ mark had appeared.  After so much of his bloodline had wound up in early graves, the last bit of hope the kingdom had placed on his shoulders finally bloomed in the shape of an alpha mark on his chest.  Even after his father’s death an alpha king would reign -- and it seemed to be this knowledge that ushered the old king, smiling and unburdened, into the afterlife.

The news of the new king’s ascension traveled as fast as a horse could run.  Every panting beast that stopped for water was replaced, unaware that the letters they carried in the satchels on their backs were the grandest cargo they would ever carry.

Word spread like a storm’s gust, and when it finally arrived at the royal guards’ camp on the outskirts of the northern hills, Arthur was washing his clothes.  The boy whose lips he remembered the taste of now sat on a throne in a far-off castle and held a positively exhausting list of titles.  With every practice march and training duel, everyone around him grew that much closer to the day they might die for the sake of granting that vain little boy a new title.

For the first time in Arthur’s life, he wondered if Francis even deserved his fate.  He wouldn’t, couldn’t deny the many nights he’d spent dreaming of the day his former love would wear a crown of gold instead of flowers, and yet -- the day the messenger arrived and spread the news with a grin, he found himself far from moved.  Arthur muttered his part of ‘the king is dead, long live the king’ so no one could hear the reverence in his voice waning, and when it was over he went back to work.

After all, there was too much to be done to spend time wondering about a man who probably didn’t even remember his name.

\--

Roderich seemed like the kind of person who wouldn’t do well as a magician.  Where those few guest teachers in recent memory had stood tall and powerful, Roderich instead trembled and clung to his staff as if it were a lifeline.  Those who came before him graced the squires with their presence and advice; Arthur’s companions rolled their eyes as their teacher thumbed through a spellbook and read in silence before them.  If Arthur could not smell the faint hint of alpha musk coming from their guest, he never would have believed his alpha status.  Roderich slammed his book shut and pushed his glasses further up his nose.

“You are all here to become members of the king’s guard,” He said, slowly, as if they might not understand; his tone only made it less likely that they would do anything but shut him out, “But knowing some magic as well could be the difference between life or death for you -- or, more importantly, for the king.”

Uncomfortable grumbling spread in the small crowd; with no friends to murmur his own disgust to, Arthur shifted on his feet.  “I know you are all eager to begin with the sword --” Whispers turned into a minor roar of agreement, and the details of the teacher’s words became fuzzy in the noise.

Captain Ludwig inhaled as if he might speak, but Roderich acted swifter.  A few words, lost to all ears except for his own, and a single tap against the ground with the brunt of his staff, he brought his thoughts into reality -- and banished the young alphas into a bubble of deep night sky.  Like a drop of ink it was endless, thick blackness that they were folded up inside.  For a band of young knights, they behaved surprisingly like terrified children, and through the blinding dark they stumbled and groped for whatever exit might be there for them.

Arthur, like the others, was blinded, but not deaf; beyond the chaos he heard Captain Ludwig and Roderich exchanging calm words, in the same direction they’d been before.  Rather than choose to wade through darkness, Arthur sought to create light, and a little gasp of air supplied a spark above his head.  Like a candle in the distant night, he could see the pale figure of it dance through the teacher’s perception spell.

That was all he needed.

He conjured an inferno.  Towering and spinning above them it burned bright and stark and hot, and did exactly what it was meant to do -- Roderich’s concentration, and his spell, broke.  Like dawn breaking over the horizon, the darkness in the recruits’ eyes faded, and they were greeted by the sight of the magician on the ground, mouth agape in terror.

Arthur opened his eyes to the redness of Ludwig’s face, and chuckled.  He could feel the distance between himself and his comrades grow as their captain opened his mouth to speak; he was interrupted.  With his glasses askew and his primped hair in disarray, Roderich stood suddenly tall with his staff tightly in hand. “I would like to speak with him alone, please.”

“If you want a duel, we can start here,” Arthur barked.  Ludwig clenched a fist, ready to fight as well.

Roderich’s eyes frowned, and he beckoned Arthur to come with him as he turned and walked away.  Had the circumstances been a little different, the rest of the class might have muttered and speculated aloud, but instead they stood in almost mournful silence as he passed them.  Through the crowd, beyond their tents and over the hill Arthur grew more agitated but followed nonetheless; he hadn’t thought to bring his sword.  Armed only with the dagger in his boot and the fire inside him, he stood, ready, when Roderich stopped and turned to him.  Eager sparks flitted at his fingertips, again gleaming at the chance to fight.

The magician stayed where he was, unintimidated since the first time Arthur had seen him. “I was told there was a magic prodigy here, but now I see that I was misled,” He said stiffly.

Arthur scoffed.  He cast away the fires in his fingers and saw the little bit of light they had given off fall from Roderich’s eyes. “You’re the first one to say that I’m anything less than a prodigy.”

“Then I’m the only person you’ve met who isn’t a fool,”

“I am _blessed_.”

“You’re cursed, child.  You must have lost something truly dear to be able to do something like that.”

“Perhaps someone just saw my potential and wanted to reward it,”

“It’s only a little _fire_.  You were given one offensive spell in exchange for something immeasurable, I’m sure -- is that what you consider a fair trade?”

“I am going to use it to defend myself and my king, isn’t that valuable?”

Roderich rubbed the circles that had been worn with worry on the handle of his staff, “I can reverse this for you.  Before it’s too late.” Arthur swatted his hand away when it reached out to touch him; he couldn’t help but sneer.  “I can help you, just listen to me,”

“Don’t touch me.”

“You cannot know what this will do to you yet -- what was it, a witch?” The young knight froze where he was, teeth bared.  “So it was, then.  I can lift it, still, if you give me the chance.” He reached for Arthur again.

Most people screamed when they were burned, whether it be by a stray candle or a campfire; Roderich didn’t make a sound.  A burst of fire erupted in the hand he touched to Arthur, and just as quickly as it came to life it was gone again, leaving only an ugly red mark on his palm.  His voice cracked a little when he spoke, “Listen to me, now --”

“Calm down,” Arthur spat, and turned to head back to camp, “ _It’s only a little fire._ ”   



	4. Chapter 4

“His majesty the king has summoned you to his personal chambers.” **  
**

Arthur nearly spat out his wine.  With the mouthful that remained and enough of a drawl to sound like a common peasant, he snorted, “You can’t be serious.”

The thought that he could finish his wine in a swig and kill the buzzing nerves in his head occurred to him, but he realized glumly that he no longer wanted it.  There was, apparently, such a thing as being too nervous to drink.  He pushed his goblet towards another man’s plate and through the crowd of mumbling comrades he shuffled alongside the poor messenger boy -- he really wasn’t going to leave without Arthur in tow.

Oh well, best to be sober for his meeting with the king; he didn’t have the pleasure of anonymity as the others did.

Though, he might as well have.  He and Francis hadn’t spoken since the day he embarked for camp as a gangly, deer-legged thing with a fresh alpha mark on the back of his hand.  And even then it had been an underwhelming experience.

\--

Francis was such a theatrical person, to see him in the hushed quiet of the early morning with no fanfare or banners around him was strange.  

“We will see each other again,” The little prince whispered, and kissed the ridges of Arthur’s knuckles.  He was in the nasty habit of making promises he couldn’t keep, and so it was hard for Arthur to refrain from curling his lip up in disgust -- after all it must be easy for a prince, so used to getting his way, to promise heaven and earth themselves with every intention of moving them on a whim.  To some it might be charming but Arthur had grown tired of it.  God had other plans for their happiness, or else their marks wouldn’t match.

“We must.  In a few years, I will be assigned here again to guard your father’s life with my own.” Solemnly said; he was a soldier now, after all.

“Is that not what you always wanted?” Certainly it was, as long as Francis had known him.  Arthur was quiet, unable to speak even when the prince took his hand and placed it over his own heart.  The royal alpha mark, red and vibrant and beautiful, was covered up by the same one that sat across the long tendons in Arthur’s hand, and for the first time in a long time Francis looked the same as he did when they were children.

“I don’t know any more.” Arthur took back his hand, clasped it around his sword’s handle.  The prince must have been even worse with words, because he didn’t say any at all as the wagons pulled away from the castle and Arthur turned his head to look away.

He still didn’t know.

Footsteps on stone were loud, and only made louder by the emptiness of the halls.  The sheer number of warm bodies filling up the castle managed to dull the sound of armor clanking and swords singing most days, but in the later hours of the evening there only remained a few particularly pious members of court -- reciting their holy verses by candlelight.  

And, of course, there was Arthur, marching at the whim of his lord and letting his mind wander as the familiar turns of the castle turned unfamiliar.  It wasn’t the first moment in his adult life that he had wondered just what he thought the duties of knighthood might entail when he was young.  He’d spent his entire youth dreaming of the end to his training, and yet -- did he think it would be glorious? Did he think he’d earn a grand title or estate?

With a sour face Arthur wondered what his 8 year old self, grinning and prancing through the castle halls as a new squire, might say to him now.  He’d have to explain that there was no such thing as glory in peacetime, that the major duties he was involved in were patrols and guarding royal parties, and now? He got to leave his friends (and a perfectly good goblet of wine) to stand at the beck and call of his master.

When he was a boy he dreamed of riding into battle, and yet somehow he had been called to banish whatever nightmare or ghost the royal bedchamber might be the occupant of.

Arthur had never set foot in this room but as he did, he wondered if it really might be haunted; not that it would surprise him.  Every gentle breeze through the windows sent the lace curtains, soft and light as cake frosting, fluttering and making shadows like monster’s claws on the walls.

Arthur remembered that Francis’ childhood room had always been decorated with everything in the kingdom that pleased or entertained him -- a wildflower pressed and preserved, a gold-engraved lute he never cared to play, his first sword passed down the royal line -- but those had been the rooms of the prince.

The king’s personal chambers were the specially-guarded heart of the castle, and the secret bane of most of the royal guard -- with so many people constantly flooding in and out there was no opportunity for rest.  The attached war room alone attracted enough of Arthur’s higher-ranking peers to make his head spin on the average day, but to see it in the dimly-lit night made it an entirely different world.  A map of their country, marked randomly with pewter figures, lay sprawled on the grand table in the center.  Gleaming off of the little metal captains and the relics on the walls, the moonlight made the room look like a cave bursting at the seams with glittering gems.

Made of dark, ancient wood and carved into thick and imposing trunks, the four posts of the bed stood tall as if they were mimicking the towers of the castle.  From their long reaches hung was had to be bolts upon bolts of purple and gold silk, and Arthur paused to stare them down.  He had seen that crest countless times, but the memory of how foreign those colors had felt on his skin made a shiver wash over him -- that memory might never leave him.

The first greeting the king offered was a yawn.  Arthur did not dare to return it with words; whatever familiarity they had built with childish kisses and held hands had died the day they separated, and of all the people in the world the king was the most dangerous to assume acquaintance with.

A deep voice purred from beyond the layers of silk, “I had heard you finally arrived, Arthur.”

“Reporting for duty, your majesty,” Arthur cleared his throat and saluted; it wouldn’t surprise him if Francis couldn’t see him at all, but the darkness was no excuse to forsake respect.

The king tsked and Arthur could swear his heart stopped beating.  “Silly boy.  When will you learn?” Silence.  That was not a question that warranted an answer when asked by the king.  “It wasn’t so long ago that you simply called me Francis.  Do you remember that?”

“Yes, your majesty,”

“Your captain had some interesting things to say about you, you know,” The down pillows forming a spectacular pile around the edges of the bed made a hushed sound as Francis rolled over onto them and propped his head up on his arm.  “He said that you are a brilliant fighter, but you relied too much on your power.”

“That very well may be true, your majesty.”

Francis groaned, dramatic as he always was.  “I have changed from a prince with a family to a king with none, and I have not changed nearly as much as you have, my friend.  Where is my Arthur?”

“... Your majesty?”

“The hour is too late and I am too tired to waste my time speaking to another stiff soldier with a vocabulary of two words.” The king fell, backwards and onto his side, and pulled the covers up over himself.  “Leave now.”

Arthur summoned a sun.  Burning and twirling and white-hot it burst forth into existence in the space between his palms and ruptured the room’s darkness; like a sunrise he had taken the night and created sweet, warm daytime.  For the first time in so many years Arthur could see the blue of Francis’ eyes lit up like a summer sky, wide and surrounded by beautiful cloud-white.

For the first time since the day he left, he saw those eyes fill up to their edges with tears.

The summer day he’d created with his magic turned into a winter night once again as Arthur inhaled sharply and banished the little sun.  “Please -- Francis, don’t cry.”

On the bare chest of the king Arthur pressed his hand; that shining alpha mark was again gone, but there was little comfort to be taken in that.  Unlike his young, newly-branded counterpart, there was so much else -- pure, bold _alpha_ \-- that couldn’t be ignored about the man his Francis had become.

What used to be the gentle, feminine curve of his chin had a sprinkling of dark hair on it, and there was a matching patch on his chest that tickled Arthur’s wrist.  His cheekbones were stark, masculine, even as he wiped the tears from his eyes and leaned his head against Arthur’s breastplate; regardless of the way he looked, the deepness of his voice, the smell of perfume in the king’s hair was too sweet not to inhale.

With his arms wrapped around Francis’s waist Arthur realized that his soft, prepubescent chub had been replaced with the firmer muscles of hunting and archery.  That realization was a catalyst for the anxiety building in his stomach; when he’d left the palace Arthur had known little more of desire than rubbing his bedsheets late at night for a moment’s relief.  But now, Francis was an alpha, everything he should have never wanted, and everything he _hadn’t_ wanted until the moment arrived.  He’d spent years surrounded by alphas -- and he’d never once felt the desire to hold any of them.

Before he could pose the question, Francis answered it with a satisfying kiss.  With the king on his knees on the bed and Arthur (suddenly unsteadily) on his feet they came to the same height they were so many years ago, when the knight’s newfound alpha status was turning his arms and legs long while Francis’s was taking its time.  It was strange to be finally mirroring their past selves, but when he found his shirt tugged upon and his presence requested in the royal bed, Arthur again remembered his oath:

_Whatever might please my king._  



	5. Chapter 5

The king had only wanted to say hello to an old acquaintance (the word ‘friend’ didn’t come so naturally with the entire order staring at him) and then he was sent off duty early for the evening.

_Nobody_ bought his story.

Stepping back into chainmail just before the sun rose the next morning had never felt more odd, especially as the snoring of the king himself, oddly familiar, bounced off stone walls and rang in his ears.

His royal cockiness announced by way of a handwritten letter (not his handwriting, duly noted) that Arthur was summoned to stand guard by his side for the day.  He nearly vomited at the prospect many a knight would jump at the chance to grasp -- though he had to admit, with the knight’s title must also come the innate ability to act.  A political miasma followed every move the royal guard made, and just to breathe in that environment took the ability to act, stoic and unmoved, every moment of duty.  Acting the same around the alphas who ran the whole kingdom rather than just the military couldn’t have been much of a stretch.

It shouldn’t have.  But only Francis would be so coy as to invite an alpha back into his chambers after spending a night in bed with him; Arthur would have to be on his best behavior.

Even though Francis wasn’t -- he twirled around his bedchambers with a wink and a nod and gave Arthur the grand tour as if he’d never seen the place before -- his advisors looked on from the attached war room, feigning interest just as Arthur did.

He re-noticed the lute in the corner and cleared his throat.  “I was unaware your majesty played.”

Ever the most effeminate alpha in the room, Francis chirped “Of course!” and bounded to his seat.  “You have so much to learn about me, Sir Arthur.”

“Perhaps you’re right,”

The art of easing the conversations of those around him was not one Francis was familiar with; even something as simple as standing watch in silence bordered on the impossible when the one man in the kingdom Arthur could not ignore wanted his constant attention.

The war room was not small, but the table inside it was large and left a shortage of space.  As standing room filled up, room to shuffle about dwindled.  The king had only meant to stand and get a plate full of the roast that had just been delivered, but -- he may or may not have meant to rub himself on Arthur as he went.

The knight’s eyes fell to the floor.

All talk and posturing, the alphas of Francis’s personal cabinet were nothing new to Arthur.  He was a soldier, after all, and half of that business was the politics that carried over from court; like bees carrying pollen the sons of lords would migrate from the palace to the battlefield and bring their traditions with them.  It was the soldiers like himself, left without connections or bloodlines to protect them, who would lay dead in the mud as a consequence.

Francis beamed over his shoulder at him, winked when no one was looking -- perhaps he was no longer completely unconnected, after all.  After all there were some men out there who would gladly estrange all their own acquaintances just to have the king himself on their side.

The men of court, those politicians and well-bred alphas, gathered around to push the pewter troop markers aside and dine atop the map of their nation alongside their king; the guardsmen stood in silence.

“Ugh, this meat is undercooked,” The king muttered.  It hadn’t occurred to anyone else who was dining, but quickly they all agreed.

“We shall send it back immediately,” A servant boy jumped forward as he was commanded.

“No need for that.  Arthur?” In his spot in the corner, Arthur jumped, peering down his nose at the platter and the room full of people who were suddenly staring at him; he had forgotten if that meant he was allowed to speak.  “He has the most amazing magic ability, you see,”

“A magician _and_ a knight,” An elder duke from the far side of the table, hands sprawled over the territory on the map that was his, laughed.  “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

“Oh, but it’s true.  Arthur, come now.  Show us.” A silver fork, handle carved and held daintily in the royal hand, was lifted to his face.  Arthur wanted to duck beneath his armor and hide, though one phrase stuck in his mind.

_Whatever might please my king._

Stares bore down on him, growing impatient.  All he’d ever wanted to do with his powers was fight in the name of his country, and instead he was asked to conjure night lights and cook meat like his gift was a trick.

_Whatever might please my king._

Arthur inhaled deeply, and blew a gentle stream of fire across the surface of the quail.  He didn’t know enough about fresh game to know if it really was well-done or not, but it satisfied the men at the table.  As they stared on with dazzled eyes, their mouths agape in awe, Arthur inhaled and the stream of flame was cut off.

All eyes were again on him.

Again he felt the urge to vomit.

\--

Thick leather shoes clicking against the hard stone floor applauded Arthur’s swift departure from the king’s chambers.  His friends would be no doubt bustling to hear of his day at the king’s side, but instead all he wanted was to go back to his own bedroom and hide there, beneath the sheets, where no prying royal eyes could find him.

But before he could get there, Francis blocked the way out.

Arthur turned, worrying his thumb across the lines of his knuckles as the dark corner of the castle he called home beckoned for him all the louder.  “Arthur, you seem unhappy.”

“I wouldn’t dream of that, your majesty.”

“Arthur.” Stern.  Francis’ words, that he didn’t want Arthur to lie to him, danced around in his memory --

“Am I dismissed, your majesty?”

“No, you are not!”

Against royal orders and his oath, Arthur turned to leave.  Again, Francis stopped him -- but it wasn’t solely his presence there that kept him.  His hands, the look in his eyes had a strange sort of magic all their own, and as the knight was held there by it he wondered how Francis made him stand there like a dumbstruck idiot.

Lips on his.  Arthur kissed him back, with a grumble but no hesitation, and when they broke apart he bit the lip that still tasted like the king.

“My power is not a _parlor trick_ , Francis.”

“I was only having a little fun,” Wiggling his hips like an omega (like he used to when they were children), Francis pawed at his chest, kissed a spot on Arthur’s jaw.

“I don’t wield fire for fun.”

“Non, but I can wield _you_ for fun, can’t I?” He was the only one that found it funny -- but he was the only one whose opinion mattered.

As the doors to the chambers flung open, Arthur’s instinct for battle served them well; he shoved Francis away and turned, as if he might still be on duty.  He did not turn nor flinch nor even breathe as the page stood at attention, saluted, and said:

“Your majesty, your fiance has just arrived.”


	6. Chapter 6

There were no words. Francis found none to offer Arthur as he dismissed himself to that precious haven, past the league of questioning soldiers and concerned handmaidens, past an even more concerned young omega who called after him and worried his eyebrows when he got no response.

It was impolite at the time, but the next day when Arthur left for duty (summoned again, this time the letter was written in Francis’ handwriting and in the form of an apology but Arthur tore it up) in the throne room and again met that ever-worrying violet gaze, well – it became nigh treasonous that he had not met the queen-to-be when he had the chance.

Just from looking at him you could have pinned the young prince to be Francis’ brother (a distant cousin, someone had mentioned to him when he wasn’t listening). Their hair was a similar shade of sun-kissed grain, but where Francis smiled and brightened a room, Matthew seemed to fade away into any crowd he found himself in. Arthur did not have to speak with him to see the meekness in his eyes and the way he wrung his hands in his robes – and when he did speak to him, finally, all of his assumptions confirmed themselves.

“It is a pleasure to meet you,” A commoner’s greeting, an extended hand. Certainly not because the high-bred poodle before him was a commoner, but adopted, perhaps, because he thought it might be more suitable for his guest.

Francis cleared his throat and quickly brought Arthur back into consciousness. The hand of his queen-to-be was before him, nearly limp but offered nonetheless – kneeling, the knight kissed it. It was cold and clammy against his lips, and the unwelcome scent of nervous omega wafted into his nostrils and set off a flurry of worried nerves in his head.

Worried for the sake of a man he already hated.

“The pleasure is entirely mine.”

–

The first day Prince Francis laid eyes on Arthur he thought he must have been the ugliest little servant boy he’d ever seen. Sure, the bushy-browed little one was higher-born than any quivering scully maid in the castle, but tiptoes in breeding mattered little to the most pedigreed child in the country.

Arthur’s nose crinkled at the bridge when he became upset (which was a lot of the time) and the thick calluses on his knuckles belied the thin, girly wrists he hid beneath oversized shirts. Behind those spring leaf green eyes Francis saw his soul wound up tight like violin strings.

And just like violin strings, Francis loved to poke at Arthur until he made the most ghastly of sounds – any innocent bystander might have thought that the prince had taken to torturing his fellow children for fun, but anyone who knew them understood it as a clever game of cat and mouse.

Who was which might never be clear.

Arthur never played the silent game as a child; that much Francis had always been able to count on. Any adult who had lost their last nerve with the little prince had to play it for their own sakes. Smile. Bow. Pretend the boy was anyone but the most irritating creature who ever walked the planet, and make a hasty exit whenever possible.

Arthur, meanwhile, was a stranger to such adult nuances. Francis would laugh as Arthur got a stern wallop from his superiors, and Arthur would giggle at the ridiculous makeup Francis had to put on for public appearances.

But oh, how the prince loved his little twerp. Loved only in the chaste way a child can – tenderly, sweetly. He loved the way Arthur swore like an adult and spoke with a higher class accent than he deserved to. He loved him the day Arthur kneeled and told him, “I’ll fight for your father one day. And then, after that, I’ll fight for you. And you’ll be my prince from then on out.”

“Is that so?” Francis laughed but Arthur was deathly serious.

“I want you to be mine, always.”

The prince offered his hand. “Then I shall be.”

Some days Francis had to wonder where that precious little child had gone. Surely he’d never believed that a prince would go unmated – or that it could change the bond they shared.

Yet there that same child was, all grown up. And still just as deserving of a slap.

—

“Francis tells me you two were childhood friends,” Matthew smiled with genuine mirth in his eyes. “That must have been quite fun.”

“You don’t know Francis very well if you think he could be fun.” An uncomfortable laugh for the sake of politeness – a specialty of the royal class if there ever was one. His hand perched on Francis’ wrist, their arms linked together, finished off the image of the humble, blushing omega at court that Matthew held like a perfect shield. As if being the king’s mate to be wasn’t enough protection.

The silence was pressing, awkward. Francis, seething behind a barely-contained smile and Arthur, not even trying to seem pleased, could at least agree that they weren’t about to go out of their way to break it. Matthew, sweet omega that he was, piped up. “So, Arthur. Where were you born?”

“You wouldn’t have heard of it, your highness.”

“Oh, please,” A giggle. Arthur tried not to openly frown. “I might have.”

Suddenly envious of the alpha passing behind Francis with a nearly-overflowing goblet of wine in his hand, Arthur had to jump when he realized he was still in the conversation. “– Ah, Riverbend Reach. About a day south of Cape Carasyn.”

“Oh, I do know of that town!” He sounded almost surprised. “I bought my finest horse from a breeder there. It’s an excellent little spot, I think,”

“It’s been pleasant,” Arthur cut off the queen-to-be and dashed for the door.

A thousand thoughts. A million curses, all wanting to flow out of his mouth. Arthur’s feet found the path to his sanctuary, the courtyard, where the sound of leaves crunching beneath his boot caught him off guard for once. Autumn couldn’t be upon them yet, could it?

He looked up. Where there used to be a bright, open space for fencing and playing and wrestling a fountain featuring a statue of the old king had been erected. He looked proud, somber, eyes cast eternally towards the horizon so that his subjects would never have to worry about what lay beyond it.

Arthur sat on the walls of the fountain and kicked his heels against it as if he hoped it might collapse. He’d never formally met the man, but he cursed him under his breath.

“You couldn’t have had an omega, could you?”

No response but the rushing of the water. The knight looked over his shoulder as if he expected something more, and furrowed his brow. Perhaps the fault wasn’t in his sex but in the fact that Francis was – Francis. Bringing his pretty, blushing, virgin mate to meet with him and expecting, what? A blessing? Acceptance?

Only Francis.

Of course it was best for the kingdom. Francis had many aunts and uncles, brave and strong alphas who had led their troops into battle and fallen alongside them. Nobody dared to mock the old king for staying locked away in his castle; it fell to him to produce an heir after all. As if God himself was giving his blessing, even as his hair turned gray the old king was blessed with newborn baby Francis, and a whole kingdom’s hopes for what he would become. Now it was that baby boy’s turn to move forward, take a queen and make a whole new line of heirs to preserve the future.

Was it treasonous for a knight to selfishly pray for the kingdom’s peril?

Arthur tossed a rock into the fountain and stormed past the old tree that used to be their shelter away from the madness of court – it could not help them now.


	7. Chapter 7

“Your blood is not yours to shed,” Captain Ludwig used to say, “Your blood must be shed for the king.” **  
**

Arthur didn’t intend to lose a drop of his blood -- for the sake of his king or otherwise.

That being said, Ludwig was not a stupid man, and from the moment he first saw the gusts of flame coming from Arthur’s mouth, he knew something had to be done about it.  A simple rag, soaked in bitter beer and rolled into a ball, became Arthur’s greatest enemy as he held back a gag and took it into his mouth.

“Even a small spark will turn your head into a torch,” Ludwig explained, “So now you have no choice but to hone your skills with the sword.”

Tears budded up at the corners of Arthur’s eyes as the stinging stench of alcohol wafted up into his nose and made him want to vomit -- it truly made no sense.  The world they lived in was ever-changing, and no longer did warriors live and die by rules in a book they would never get to read.  More than just nobles were allowed to risk their lives for their king and their families and more than just magicians were able to wield magic.  When he came sword to sword with another alpha fighting for his life, the captain would not be there to smack his wrist were he to rely more on fire than his blade.

The gust of wind that followed a swinging sword made his questions disappear as it nearly landed on his arm.  A trickle of sour beer ran down his throat as Arthur stumbled backwards and held his weapon out in trembling, weak hands; there may be blood shed yet.

Stab, stab.  Feliks was as aggressive as ever, and for once the little dragon of the king’s royal guard found himself fleeing backwards, blocking, finally only able to jump out of the way.

_Thump._

The sensation of his hand’s emptiness hit Arthur before he realized what it meant.  He glanced, saw his shining sword on the ground, saw Feliks closing in with petty vengeance for all his lost matches in his eyes.  Arthur screamed, and saw his friend engulfed in green fire.

\--

Arthur awoke.  Feeling for the burn scars that should rightfully be there he ran his palm across his face and again only felt stubble and sweat.  He’d had a lot to learn then, and the first hard lesson he faced was that other people would suffer if he was reckless with his gift -- just like a snake cannot die by its own venom, the young knight realized that his own fire could not burn him.  The cost, then, was that Feliks nearly died that day.  He survived the burns, but left camp and never spoke to Arthur again.  He wouldn’t be the last one, either.

Parlor trick or horrific curse? Nobody seemed to be quite sure, least of all its wielder.

The night was still young as Arthur threw on his shirt and chainmail, unaware of where he may wander by the night’s end, and set off to distract himself.  Whether by subconscious need or curiosity he found himself in the halls by the king’s chambers.  There was not so much cacophony as there was during the day, all the dignitaries and lords of the daytime hours probably drunk and in the bed of a mistress.

The door neighboring the king’s bedroom creaked open down the hall.  Arthur bristled before realizing that he had every right to be where he was.

Speaking of dignitaries -- Francis exited that door and glanced around with shifting eyes before closing it softly.  Arthur turned to leave even before the king called out to him, “Arthur! Wait!”

It was against every vow he ever took to disobey a direct order from the king, but by God he was going to do it anyway.  He kept moving.  And damn Francis’ long legs, but he caught up quickly and grabbed him by the shoulder.  (Any other alpha would have earned himself a swift punch.  Arthur simply tensed.)

“Arthur, I need to speak with you.”

“I'm --” _ready to throttle you, you idiot,_ “I have to go.”

“Come into my chambers,”

“Let me go,”

“Arthur, that is an order.”

Like a scolded child trudging to his room, Arthur followed with a hung head.

“You've never been the most social person,” Francis began sternly.

“I don't have to be social in my line of work.”

“If you're going to be my bed mate, you will.”

Arthur looked up, brows furrowed tightly.  “-- I won't be one of, what, _twenty_ , Francis.”

The king laughed, _oh that laugh_ \-- that hadn't changed.  “Is that what you think of me? Twenty lovers?”

“I just saw you leaving some omega’s bedroom,” Arthur huffed.

“I was wishing Matthew a goodnight.” Arthur’s face stayed sour.  “If you've paid any attention during your years at court you should know that he is still a virgin.  We can't have sex, we are not married yet.”

“But you will be,”

“And?”

“ _And_ , and I won't be someone's second choice!”

“Tonight is the first night I have met Matthew.  I do not know him -- I hardly love him.” No response came of Arthur, but his instinct was to speak.  He grit his teeth and kept his mouth shut, knowing at least well enough not to talk when he had that cold knot in his throat ready to ruin his words. 

Francis took a step towards him, joined their hands, ran his thumb along the dark alpha mark that lay across the back of Arthur’s hand.  “I did not choose my mate -- that is the fate of a king.  But I do choose you.”

That knot of fear and pain disappeared when they kissed, and Arthur inhaled the sweet smell of his childhood once again.  He was there.  He had never left.  Not in the lonely nights at boot camp, with only alpha musk and his hand to bring him comfort, Francis was always there --

The king’s hand fell to his belly button, pressed against his armor and made the cool metal rings warm, and Arthur shuddered within his shell.  He had to shed that shell, and quickly; Francis barely gave him time to finish that thought before he was at his throat, biting.  Sucking.

_How was this supposed to work, exactly?_

“Take this off,” Moaned the king, and Arthur startled as the doe-eyed child Francis had never not been grabbed his trousers (his prick) and _squeezed_.

Oh, that’s how it was done.

His breathing was strained, rushed like the blood to his head, Francis had to guide him to the bed like he was walking for the very first time.  They fell in a tangle, Arthur on top but with strong legs wrapped around his waist, fingers in his hair and tugging as if they longed to wrap another braid of flowers up and place them there.  He throbbed, his whole _body_ throbbed as his chainmail clinked to the floor and his lighter cloth shirt fell right after it.  

Francis lay on his back, but Arthur would be a fool to take that as a surrender.  In his haze he was prompted and fell to his side, the king finding a bottle of something in the bedside drawer and pouring it into his hands.  His palm fit perfectly along the gentle swell of Arthur’s ass, which goosebumped immediately as the cold oil was spread over it.

So well prepared.   _How many others had he lured in here_ \-- somehow, it didn't matter.  Not when that cold, unfamiliar finger was probing into him and making him inhale a deep breath to edge away his anxiety.

“You are new to this,” said the king.  Not a question, a statement.

“You can tell,” grunted Arthur.

Francis laughed -- apparently it wasn't difficult to tell so much about him with just one finger.  Not that Francis ever seemed to have any difficulty doing anything, ever.

Arthur had had so many dreams so many nights of dying for his king, and even in his childhood chastity he had dreamed of kissing him firmly on the lips, and blushed at the thought.  Until Francis pressed his hips forward, Arthur could not imagine what it would have been to bend over for him.

The sound he let out might have been a little too much on the pained side, because the hot breathing on his back halted as they separated and he was again ushered over onto his back.

“I'm not sure if I feel any better about this position,” Breathless words.

“It is better like this.” And Arthur believed him entirely on faith, until he proved himself right.  Dear God it was a _lot_ \-- he hadn't gotten a proper glance of the king’s cock, but it couldn't have been as positively horse-sized as it felt when it was inside him and moving.

Francis bent his neck to kiss at the long collarbones spread before him, flesh still molded into little patterns where Arthur’s nightshirt had been pressing on him.  Fine, scratchy beard rubbed on that skin, tickled it (upon observation, how could omegas stand it?), until Arthur’s eyes flew open and fixated on the tiles on the ceiling.

“Never felt more like a whore,” He thought aloud.

“You’d make a fine whore,” Francis smiled into his skin, rested his cheek against him in delicate worship.  “I’d sell my castle to have you every night.”

He wouldn’t have to.

Hitched breathing, fingertips twitching in their hold of hipbones -- Arthur recognized the feeling of an alpha close to climax and felt a jolt of excitement as well as relief.  It might have been out of mercy or simply because Francis, against all odds, loved Arthur as much as he was loved by him, but the first time, in all its painful ache and awkward angles, was over swiftly.

There were tears in Arthur’s eyes, squeaking out from the corners as he was empty again and the pain ebbed to a throb.  Rather than stay on his back, as he longed to, Arthur sat up.  Confusion set in, the room was swirling around him, and on the royal sheets that certainly cost more money than he’d ever see in his life, was a small stream of his blood.

He laughed.

From his position on the pillow where he’d been reclining like a sunbathing cat, Francis startled and sat up as well.  “What is it?”

“I’ve finally shed blood for my king.”  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading this far! Judging from my notes and my plan, this isn't even halfway over yet, which would put it easily as the longest thing I've ever written...
> 
> If you enjoy this story please please leave kudos, comments, messages, absolutely anything -- they really give me the strength to keep writing. Thank you again!


	8. Chapter 8

The wind in his hair, the feeling of warm fur between his fingers, the smell of an approaching winter storm on the horizon. Using the feeling of riding a horse at full gallop on any normal day Arthur could close his eyes and daydream that he was flying, but the anxiety in his gut only brought him the unmistakable sensation of falling. 

He had woken in the king’s chamber alone. Thankfully there were none of his fellow guards around, sworn to secrecy or no, to see him slide his clothes back on and make a mad dash to his room, because like a startled rabbit he was too blind to sense to think about speaking to anyone, much less Francis. He simply hoped his friend would make an excuse for his absence and nobody would question it.

Francis owed him that much, after last night.

Arthur found a familiar path at the edge of the forest and slowed to a walk once he was on it. The last leaves clung to their branches like travelers in a storm and reminded him that he still had time -- he and his horse both sighed with relief.

Really, he should have known. The air at night had gone cold, the leaves in the courtyard had been crunching every time he walked through them. Even his companions on duty had switched their drinks from the fruity wines of summer to the bitter drinks that warmed and stung as they went down the throat. Arthur had always had such good instincts for the coming of winter, always been good to make an excuse and pay someone to cover for him when the time came for his pilgrimage. It came like clockwork, like a goose knowing when to fly south -- but he had become far too reliant on those instincts. What could it have cost him, had he ignored the cold air on his back that morning and not rushed out?

He didn’t dare to think about it -- there was too much to do to consider the endgame now.

Two lefts, and a swift duck down towards his horse’s neck to avoid the low-hanging oak tree branches. This used to be their meeting place; Arthur used to bring a cold hunk of dried meat and fruit, sit in those branches and eat his lunch while he waited.

But then, the mobs had grown larger, and she had moved deeper into the forest -- she knew that wouldn’t give her any more protection, but perhaps she had a little bit of animal in her just like Arthur did. Even as her warren flooded with water, a rabbit would still burrow deeper and deeper, digging for her life. Still, too, would Natalya seek the protection of the woods even as it offered her none.

After all, if it did, she would have no use for him.

Arthur saw his horse stop and stare into the distance before he noticed anything was amiss. An arrow whirled past his head -- he drew his sword too swiftly, too clumsily, and it slipped from his hand and clanged on the ground. From a tree he saw a kneeling figure staring him down, another arrow threaded and raised and sure not to miss its target again.

“Natalya?”

“Arthur.” In an instant that arrow was gone from her hand, and like a squirrel she was sliding out of her tree. “You’re late.”

“I am not,” Arthur said with a huff and dismounted, fumbling around in the dead leaves for his weapon. The witch looked at him with almost-pity in her eyes.

“I am glad I gave you what I did. You must be quite a pathetic knight.”

“I’m in line to be the head of his majesty’s guard,” Natalya frowned, but he wasn’t sure if that was because she saw through the lie or that was simply the way her face looked always. Years of knowing her pointed to the latter.

“You must be the dragon of the royal guard everyone is talking about,” She ran her hand along the mane of his steed and earned a grateful equine nicker.

“And how would you know what everyone is talking about?” Arthur snatched his horse’s reins and continued along the deer’s path.

“I do still make my way into town occasionally --” Another shift in the air. Both she and the horse froze and fixed their gazes on the horizon of black, naked trees. “For supplies.” Unlike that rabbit Arthur had pictured before, Natalya had a surprising ability to keep her calm, even in the most dire of situations. “We should move.”

\--

“On this, the day of Allhallowtide, we do solemnly pray for your forgiveness and protection.”

Arthur cringed at the scent of blood but allowed the witch’s fingers to run along his face and paint his skin with it. He was given two tear lines, in bold scarlet, running all the way down to his chin.

“I give my respects to those gone from this plane,” Natalya carefully said, and Arthur repeated in time, “And ask that you allow me the strength to protect those who remain.”

Arthur took his sword and stood. The little wooden cottage was cold, all the more so because Natalya never dared to light a fire on this of all nights. When she blew the life out of her prayer candles, the only light in the room was the eerily-glowing eyes of her familiar, an old white cat. It tiptoed after him as he made for the door.

“Arthur,” He stopped. Clutching her dagger in her hands, the witch looked almost afraid for herself. “Don't drop your sword this time, idiot.”


	9. Chapter 9

The next morning Natalya dressed his wounds in silence while her cat groomed his spotless white fur in her lap. **  
**

“This cat was old and toothless when I was a child,” Arthur chuckled, “How old is it now?”

“Sage is probably about 100 now,” She said with a shrug.

“And how long has Allhallowtide been giving you all this grief?”

“The same.”

“Perhaps the cat is cursed.  You should consider making him into a stole.”

Calm, she paused her work to look up at him.  “If you touch my cat, little dragon, I will be wearing _your_ hide by the end of the day.”

Arthur put his hands up in surrender.  “I didn't mean anything by it.”

Natalya’s gaze as well as the little cat’s both met his -- both with the same piercing, deadly stare.  He took that as a good cue to gather his rucksack and make for the door.  Not one to abandon her manners even in the worst times, the witch swung her door open for him and knocked his armor for good luck.  “You always were a scrawny little pup, Arthur,” She considered aloud.

Arthur puffed his chest out ever the slightest for the little alpha, “And now?”

“Slightly taller, but still scrawny.” 

“I’ll see you next Allhallowtide, Natalya.”

With his last glance into the house he saw Sage, a bundle of white fur, still looking at him.  The whole way home, whenever he closed his eyes he still saw that bright yellow stare, glowing in the night.

\--

Arthur sat up in bed, groaning as the darkness in the window revealed the still-late hour.  Had it all been a dream? Did he still have to make his pilgrimage after all?

The stinging in his side jolted his brain and eased his worries.  He’d made it; he and his horse had staggered back onto the castle grounds close to sunset amidst one-person (Francis’) fanfare.  Taking notice of the small smear of blood on his hands, the king had set about making up a cot for Arthur and having every excellent healer, herbalist and so on he knew attending to him around the clock.

For the moment, however, there was no one, and he could breathe easily.  Fire, natural and orange and beautiful, crackled and danced on a carefully stacked pile of logs in the fireplace, and for the first time in weeks Arthur's feet were warm and he didn't feel like getting out of bed.

But it wasn't to last.

He jumped at the sound of the door swinging open and hitting the wall; Francis stood on the threshold with his fingertips on his brow and a grimace on his perfect lips.  For all his strength Arthur felt butterflies in his chest.

Standing two steps behind the king was the familiar face of Captain Ludwig, ever stern and staring ahead like a statue.

Again Arthur succumbed to his instincts before thought and scrambled out from under his covers and into a clumsy salute.  “Captain, sir.”

“You may stay at ease for the moment.” That permission went mostly unheeded; only the knight's hand swung at his side.

“Captain, what are you doing so far north?”

“Seldica has marched on our southern border and laid siege to two fortresses there.  We stand to lose them both at this moment, and so we’re bringing all soldiers to posts.  I’ve come to ensure the safe travel of the king to the front line.” Spiraling up his fingers and making them twitch with desire, Arthur felt the itch to hold his sword take over him.   _Finally_!  “We will depart in three days.”

“If only it could come sooner, sir.”

The captain’s face soured a little, but Arthur’s mind was racing too fast to see it.  His bed was no longer welcoming as the prospect of practice -- real practice, practice for something besides a drill -- burned in his heart.  He didn’t realize that Francis remained as the captain was dismissed until the door was clicked shut and the king wearily sunk into the bed.  “You’re so eager,” He sighed.

Arthur paused, his hauberk sitting crooked and half-on over his chest.  “What? Did you think I became a soldier for fun?” He decided hastily that his chainmaille alone would be fine for just sparring, and slid on his boots.  “Of all the --” narrowly dodged the word ‘ _loves_ ’ “Things, in my life -- Francis, this is the only thing that has been with me longer than you.  And now, I have the opportunity to exercise it!”

With no more words forthcoming and without a proper bow and excuse for himself, Arthur darted from the room and jogged down the hall and towards the barracks.

\--

“Do you still rely on that little trick of yours?” Ludwig looked down at him with a frown.  Arthur squeezed and released his sword’s handle in anticipation.

“I don’t need to.”

“Good.” 

“I, for one, think it’s a spectacular power.  Don’t you?” Francis, as smoothly as a ghost, appeared at the edge of the courtyard, and Ludwig fell to his knees. “Get up, now.  It’s alright.”

“It could certainly serve the kingdom well,” The captain agreed, “If not for his helmet.  I wouldn’t advise any knight to go without his helmet in battle unless he wished to die.”

“That is, perhaps, a problem I should have looked into.” Francis ran a hand along Arthur’s arm with enough pressure that the knight could feel it, just a little, through his armor.  He leaned in until his breath bled through the chainmail and tickled his neck.  “Do well in this fight, and later you may exercise _me_ instead, mm?”

Arthur tried not to ignore the piercing look in Ludwig’s eyes for the rest of the day.

\--

Burning.  There was no fire not controlled by stone or man for miles, the entire castle was burning and bustling with energy and speed; men jogged through the halls, arms overflowing with supplies for the anxious army.  The cherry on top of this anxious cake was the news Arthur almost choked on his dinner over: the queen-to-be was in heat, just down the hall.

Regardless of his most unusual taste -- not for many alphas but just for the one -- Arthur, too, felt the warmth seeping from Matthew’s quarters, and the goosebumps that came after climbing up his neck.

“Of course the king isn’t allowed in Prince Matthew’s quarters when he’s like this,” Arthur heard through the haze of three mugs of beer, “But wouldn’t this be special circumstances and all?”

“What if he dies away at war, having never left an heir for the kingdom?”

“Yeah,”

“I don’t think anyone would blame him for it if he did,”

“It must be torture.  Right next to that room, hearing all the sounds… smelling all the _smells_.  Not able to do anything.”

Arthur stood and stumbled in the direction of the king’s quarters.

\--

That night Francis, high off of the scent of heat and the electricity of impending war, knotted Arthur with bared teeth and tender touches.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoyed this story please leave kudos, comments, etc. It really keeps me going. Thank you for reading!


	10. Chapter 10

So many years ago Arthur had left the castle behind him and told himself he regretted nothing.  The day they all piled upon carts and horses and made for the southern border in a great line, he could say that with impunity; Francis was by his side. **  
**

“No matter what happens, I want you here, with me.  Through the whole battle.  Alright?”

“I couldn’t dream of being anywhere else, your majesty.”

The towers of the castle melted away over the horizon in his peripheral vision with the queen-to-be safely within their walls, and though every step carried them ever closer to battle, Arthur’s anxiety disappeared as the rooftops did.  For the first time in so many years he could sit beside the king without a word between them -- they had the safety, the comfort in the silence that neither of them needed to break.  Words were only extra.  All that remained was the thud of horses’ hooves and the gentle sway and creak of carts, as even the captain stayed quiet at the head of the long train.

Two days passed in silence.  Nothing had to be said.  Every night that came Arthur saw more men bowing in prayer before bed, but he never joined them; he was perfectly fine to lay down in his tent beside the king’s and listen to the sound of their flag fluttering throughout the night.  Morning came too early again, and Arthur pulled off the trick of rummaging through his pack in search of tea leaves while opening his eyes as little as possible.  It was too early to be thinking -- and with envy he heard all of his neighbors snoring.

His horse noticed that something was amiss before he did.  A quick stomp wasn’t entirely unusual for the poor thing; he was born high strung.  But with a kick he knocked down his tent pole and backed onto his hind legs -- without a choice and completely awake, Arthur fumbled around beneath his tarp and finally pulled it away from his face to find their camp in chaos.

A Seldican attack was mounting.  A man fell to the ground clutching his chest just beside Francis’ tent, and in an instant Arthur climbed onto his horse and leapt forward, clad only in his underwear.

Somewhere in the mayhem his horse found his courage -- Arthur found the same in a lance left carelessly leaning against a tent, which he took up and aimed squarely at a Seldican flagbearer.  Ludwig was right; there was a certain kind of joy in seeing the enemy’s flag fall into the mud.  

There was an instant of heart-stopping deja vu as an arrow whipped by his head.  Arthur became painfully aware of his nakedness then, the feeling of his legs against his defenseless horse, though he had no time to be afraid.

His eyes shifted, and locked on an archer at the edge of camp.  Like a predator he sprinted forth, lance spitting blood onto his steed’s brown fur as it stayed straight through the wind that rushed in his ears.

Another arrow came by, this time slicing his arm.  The lance in his hand felt suddenly heavy as the sensation of blood rushing down his arm made panic bloom in his stomach.

Arthur bared his teeth, opened his mouth, and hissed a long stream of hot, violet fire.  In the moment it took to reach him, he saw the young archer’s eyes go wide, and then disappear in the color of the king.

It didn’t occur to him that his horse might have bucked him off until he was lying on the ground, listening to the sounds of clanking metal and yelling alphas all around him die down, and soon become silent.

\--

He awoke to Francis’ face with tears in his eyes.  “Arthur! Oh, praise God,”

Arthur couldn’t kiss him in front of all those who were also present, but he wanted to so badly he could taste warm lips on his.  The king must have shared his sentiments, because he kissed his hands and held them tight in his.

Arthur exhaled and winced; something in his chest stung as if the fire he’d breathed was still stuck inside.  “What happened?”

Ludwig cleared his throat; he was armored.  He must have had time.  “When the Seldicans saw your fire, they ran.  They assumed we must have a dragon.”

“Oh, but we do.” Francis beamed back at him.  “Trust you, my knight, to get a horse so terrified of fire that he would throw you at the first sign of it.”

“Perhaps it isn’t so unwise to be afraid of _violet_ fire, your majesty,” Whispered another alpha in the corner.

“I should get a new horse,” Arthur groaned.

“Of course.  Once you’re better we can make for the nearest town.  I’ll buy you the finest beast there.” The captain’s frown caught Francis’ attention as he stood, and put his hands on his hips.  “Does that seem unreasonable to you, captain?”

“No, your majesty.”

“I should think not.  As a symbol of my gratitude for saving my life, he deserves much more.”

Against his body’s protests, Arthur sat up and lost his breath.  “We can get back on the move immediately.”

“Have you lost your mind? You must rest.”

“My legs still work, Fra -- your majesty.  Where is the nearest village?”

That unfamiliar alpha spoke up again -- from his table, where he had been leaning over to inspect a map, it seemed.  “Riverbend Reach is less than a day’s walk away.”

“How exciting, Arthur!” Francis chirped.   


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay foreshadowing.
> 
> If you liked this chapter please please give kudos or leave comments! Though I usually don't respond I read and cherish every single one, and I think about them all day. Thank you so so much for your support.


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